b R o K e n
by L. K. Moon
Summary: He hadn't really expected to kill him, you know. He'd known the unmarked corpse in life under a plethora of different titles: acquaintance, opponent, enemy, obsession, lover, victim. The world had depended on Harry Potter, and now they were all going to d
1. Default Chapter

b R o K e n  
  
prologue:  
  
"Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one  
can go."  
-- T. S. Eliot  
  
The air was heavy, thick and he could almost feel the emotion caked over his body, limiting his movements. There was static palpability to the air, the smell of lightning and electricity permeating harshly crackling as though the power had still not been fully unleashed: the fury had yet to be sated. Shaking his flaxen head as though to shake of birds of sorrow resting among the unruly cowlicks of his hair, the boy bent down and kissed those deceptively warm lips. Still soft, still pink, still very, very - //whatareyoudoing stopityourehurtingme ohgodohgodwhywhy ithoughtyoulovedme// - dead. He lazily waved a wand over the crumpled heap that was supposed to constitute as a human body. He was silent, no magical words spilling from his lips, but he could feel the power flow out his fingertips. He really didn't need the wand anymore either, let alone silly syllables of incantation, but he held it for the familiarity, the comfort. It wasn't long until he gave the wand up too, with the rest of his humanity.  
  
He hadn't really expected to kill him - //smileohsoemptily runhandsoversoftwarmskin makehimhearhimbegforit// - you know. He'd known the mutilated corpse in life, probably better than anyone else had. Known him under a plethora of different titles: acquaintance, opponent, enemy, obsession, lover (was it possible to call someone your lover if you never really loved him, just twisted his love for you until he lay broken there, now?), victim. Never really were friends, though. Funny, how instead of regret for that inanimate body's current state of ... extinction, he was regretting that there hadn't been more of a struggle; he craved the rage, a person's darkest voice. He wanted to feel that same shadow in another person. Make someone understand ... And who better than his worst enemy - best enemy - to prove that people really are as broken and fucked up and twisted as he is. He hadn't meant to kill him - //wantthishuhyoulittleslut wantmeinyouonyouowningyou nailsscoreacrossunmarkedskin crimsonandscarletlikebloodyoctoberskies// - honestly. He was supposed to be strong. A worthy adversary. Newton said that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. He was supposed to be his reaction, his silhouette, his polar opposite. They were supposed to be exactly different, an oxymoron to be sure: surely if he had power, his nemesis could match him fist for fist, word for word, spell for spell. But he wasn't quick enough, was he? Wasn't - //dontknowifitspleasureorpain hisbloodforlubicant hecriedwhenyoufuckedhimrawbut allhesaidwasiloveyouiloveyou// - worthy of his time. Because he was superior in every way to everyone. Dumbledore, his father, the Dark Lord and especially that broken doll of a man lying on that cold stone floor.  
  
And he wanted to dance, laugh, scream. Instead, he stroked an almost-cold cheek, marveling at the sharpness of the cheekbones, the steady jaw. "I almost believed I could love you, beautiful. I thought you were like me. You were supposed to hate me, you were supposed to be just as broken as I am. You were supposed to make me want to be everything you weren't." And he pulled lids fringed with charcoal lashes over deathly green eyes. "Goodnight, sweet prince. Just remember - you were mine."  
  
He stood up and delved in his robes, pulling out a box of doctored cigarettes. Deftly, he lit a fag with the snap of his fingers, and dragged deeply on the sweet, feeling the sweetness of the marijuana as it thrummed numbingly. With a sharp exhalation of breath, he whispered, almost as an afterthought, "Good-bye, Harry Potter. They'll never forget you."  
  
He looked outside and thought it might be raining, as droplets scattered in through the open window. There was moisture on his cheeks to be sure. He thought that maybe he should feel guilty. The world had depended on Harry Potter, and now they were all going to die. He knew this with surety, the same way he knew that the day is coming when the sun forgets to rise, the same way he knew that everyone who loved is going to be scattered and bled dry, the same way he knows that there aren't really and winners or losers because this isn't even a game. A game has a point, a raison d'être, and it never really matters because we're all dead or dying, anyway.  
  
He glanced at the watch on his thin wrist. Slowly, green words scroll along the watch's black face: Time ... To ... Kill ... Albus ... Dumbledore.  
  
He smiled. "And the dance goes on."  
  
Later, he'd whispered something in that old man's ear that widened eyes and shocked that self-appointed, omnipotent demigod. He'd killed Dumbledore slowly, muggle-style, gutting him, dissecting him like an animal. After all, Albus loved those disgusting muggles so much - he deserved to die like one. Funny, how "the greatest wizard of our time" bled like any other man, died for stupid reasons like any other man, and was most of all just as weak as any other man. "Even Harry Potter saw through you," he'd hissed as he made the final incision across that wrinkled throat. It was so easy that it was ridiculous, he'd thought as he watched the blood stain the old man's parchment-like skin.  
  
He'd meant to kill Albus. He'd meant to kill Ronald Weasley. He'd meant to kill Severus Snape. He'd meant to kill Sybill Trelawny. He'd meant to kill that oaf Hagrid. He'd meant to imperio Ginny Weasley so she'd kill two first year mudbloods and write their death's on the wall in their blood outside Moaning Myrtle's bathroom before locking herself in the Chamber of Secrets. He'd meant to torture Hermione Granger until she'd lost that famously ingenious mind and her brain was scrambled a gibbering mass of insanity. No one was sure what really happened to her exactly, but Hermione's madness was evident enough. He'd meant to rape Cho Chang on the bed of the dead corpse of Marietta Edgecombe until she lay ripped and unraveled under his thrusting hips, left only alive enough to know who he was.  
  
"Draco Malfoy -" she'd whimpered to the aurors who arrived a day too late, beautiful face a ruin of red scars covering like a spider's web. "He told me that - Professor Dumbledore is dead - that - that Harry is dead. He - killed them, didn't he?"  
  
But he'd never meant to kill his broken prince.  
  
March 30 was a day that would spread like wildfire through the wizarding world. It was the death day Harry Potter, and it was the official date for the beginning of the war, though the first battles didn't take place for another three weeks, the fear had descended, and begun to consume.  
  
On March 31, the funeral (with its was seven carcasses and school full of broken people) interrupted by a crimson phoenix bearing a curious package. It dropped it right on Harry Potter's coffin with a dull thud.  
  
The hysterical audience never really understood why Lucius Malfoy's messily severed head chose that moment to grace them with his presence. They understood even less when twelve owls proceeded to rain down more heads. Later, the explosive, best-selling Daily Prophet issue named them Molly Weasley, Percy Weasley, Narcissa Malfoy, Cornelius Fudge, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mafalda Hopkirk, Amos Diggory, Amelia Bones and Dolores Umbridge and three unidentified muggles (two male, one female). Five packed newspapers later, the Prophet proclaimed that these muggles were apparently the late Harry Potter's guardian family: Vernon, Petunia and Dudley Dursley. Another corpse was found at their place of residence, and although the biggest chunk of "her" (they weren't entirely sure of the victim's gender) was one crushed eyeball. After tagging and releasing several muggle witnesses, they labeled the woman "Arabella Figg", a local squib. No one was entirely sure why she happened to be in the vicinity at that time.  
  
Life went on, as it always does. The war made people grow up like that. Minerva McGonagall was still there, as was Remus Lupin, as was Alastor Moody. They formed somewhat of a haphazard triumvirate of leadership within the Order. Of course, they were not entirely sure of what to do exactly: Dumbledore had not really let his plans for the future of the Order become known. Of course, even he could not have foreseen his own death and Harry Potter's.  
  
The deputy for Amelia Bones, a former Ravenclaw named Erin Brant, was elected Minister for Magic in a chaotic election. The ministry was a sham really, a puppet government; all of the real power lay with the Order. Or with the Death Eaters, of course.  
  
Luna Lovegood and her father joined the Order, and she was avidly studying several conspiracy theories involving the "Draco Malfoy" incident, as it was wont to being called (no one wanted to say that the only hopes for the good of mankind were now lying under six feet of icy, Scottish soil). She dropped out of school to take on an apprenticeship at the Department of Mysteries with a side job as a reporter at her father's magazine after the fall of Harry Potter, and hadn't looked back.  
  
Neville Longbottom was being trained by the Order intensely. A loosely recorded prophecy (none of the witnesses of the prophecy were alive, none of the complete records were left intact) proclaimed that the one who had the power to kill the Dark Lord could only have been killed by the Dark Lord himself. Not only that, but he had to have been born at the end of July. Ergo, Harry Potter wasn't the destined one, Albus Dumbledore was wrong, and Neville was actually the boy who could make or break the Dark Lord.  
  
Minerva McGonagall knew that Neville would never be strong enough. He doesn't have the power in Harry Potter's littlest finger. She knew Albus Dumbledore would never have been wrong about something like that, and she knew that the hope of the people hung on a thread. She knew that Neville Longbottom is the only reason there isn't anarchy and chaos. So she kept her mouth closed and taught Neville as best as she can. She knew that the battle was lost. She knew that there was something very, very wrong. She knew that the day is coming when the sun forgets to rise. She knew that she'll soon lie broken and twisted and dead. But at night, the wizarding world prayed to Neville Longbottom the way they'd once prayed to Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter. And Minerva McGonagall, quietly, meekly, prayed, too.  
  
St. Mungo's fourth floor ward SPELL DAMAGE held three former Hogwarts students: what's left of Cho Chang, Hermione Granger and Virginia Weasley. Ginny can still at least make competent sentences - Hermione Granger hasn't said anything rational at all, and stares vacantly, emptily, like a placid vegetable. Cho was the only one who shows signs of rationality - she'd originally been in the CREATURE-INDUCED INJURIES ward (apparently her rape injuries constituted as "bites, stings, cuts, etc." It fit; Draco Malfoy was a creature.). However, she wanted the company of the only two other people to face Draco Malfoy after the .... incident ... and live. Granted, they weren't exactly in the best of health (mental, physical or otherwise), but they were alive. That first night with the three of them together, when the nurses have finally ceased their endless clucking, Cho stared at those two pairs of vacant eyes, one pair tawny, the other deepest brown, and wondered why they were left alive. Surely even Draco Malfoy had heard of mercy. She didn't wonder for much longer.  
  
The next day, Ginny Weasley committed suicide. That's the nice way of saying she had bitten through her veins in the night and splattered words onto the bed-sheets: Some chambers will never stay shut. Some scars never fade. The Daily Prophet has colored pictures to go along with that particular issue. They even brought up previous business involving Ms. Weasley and the Dark Lord back in her first year of Hogwarts, connections that had previously been labeled Confidential by one Albus Dumbledore. But the dead can't protect very much, now can they?  
  
Somewhere else, a being (he couldn't really be termed as just a man anymore) formerly known as Tom Riddle looked at that article in the Daily Prophet. He laughed, something that caused Peter Pettigrew to visibly flinch. "Little Ginny Weasley. And I had hope that I would have the pleasure of meeting the brat before her demise." Wormtail always had been a fidgety little rat. "What is the ministry coming to these days? They're letting that boy go rampant, you know."  
  
Draco Malfoy hadn't been heard from since his consolation gifts and the Potter, Dumbledore, Snape, Hagrid, Trelawny, Weasley and Edgecombe funeral. The Order had their suspicions, of course, though Voldemort was the primary focus of their efforts. Draco Malfoy (the Dark Lord's supposed new left- hand man) was almost the source of as much fear and hatred as Voldemort, after his bloody baptism of blood and fire into notoriety. Rumor had it that he had taken to Muggle victim; Britain had recently been wracked with "mysterious, unexplainable, violent and Muggle deaths" (as the Daily Prophet spouted). A serial killer was suspected, but the wizarding world didn't have time to properly begin an investigation for the renegade killer. Nymphadora Tonks and her partner Izanami Raidon were assigned to search for the teenage slayer, though all they found was a random series of pieces of Muggles. Literally.  
  
The duo didn't know that they weren't the only ones searching for Draco Malfoy. His murders against the Death Eaters (including his own parents) sparked a search warrant for himself among the Dark side as well as the Light. Lucius was a high-ranking Death Eater, as well as Severus Snape. And the Dark Lord doesn't forget crimes against his own.  
  
However, Draco Malfoy continued to elude both Death Eaters and Aurors alike. Hidden in the Muggle world like a snake in a prairie dog tunnel, he had, for lack of a better word, disappeared.  
  
Except to one person. Every chain has one weak link. Every man has a weakness. And he had one, and it would loose him his anonymity, his secrets.  
  
Hermione Granger stared at the wall in St. Mungo's. She felt dirty: raped, pillaged, burned. But she knows that the one to afflict her was paying for it. It was her single mantra these days, the satisfaction of retribution. Hermione could almost feel the fetid stickiness of his sin as it clung to her skin. It was thick, viscous and it haunted her dreams until she began to hate sleep. Until she began to hate those who could sleep.  
  
Nights were when they bled, tingeing reality to the dreams and the time of perfect sense. Some things could only be understood in her own hidden consciousness. During the day, Hermione had gotten quite good at that time- honored game of pretend. (Smile emptily, giggle thoughtlessly, spill those meaningless oh-so-secret thoughts to the world.) As if she cared about who was the new Minister for Magic. As if she cared that the war had begun. As if she cared that the death toll had reached the hundreds and would most likely be in the thousands by Christmas. As if God was watching her and smirking. As if she knew what she felt. What love was. Layered fragments shifted through her mind and even she recognized the chaos, the one pattern in her life: her own undeniable insanity.  
  
Oh, and Hermione wanted. She wanted many things so badly. To be able to talk and say something. To understand how someone once wrote we're all the same underneath, when he was such a monster. To understand how someone could violate her the way he did and just go on. Her deepest fantasy was to reverse the roles between them. To claim him. To hold him down, drink him in, shred pieces of his skin under Hermione's own fingernails, then pick them out and eat them. Just a little taste.  
  
Hermione knew that she was sick. Earlier, she'd learned to play the game, live the lie. Smile emptily, giggle thoughtlessly, spill those meaningless, oh-so-secret thoughts to the world. Except, she had no more thoughts to spill. She was all dried up and had nothing left to give. So she sat and stared in silence, trying her very best to ignore the shadows, ignore their cries. Feign sanity. But she's forgotten what sanity is, exactly.  
  
Life was fucked up like that for her. It was always going in a fucking spiral and it wouldn't end. Nothing ever did anymore. (You want to know hell? Welcome to its cruelest form: this never ending infinity.) Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate. Dante was right: Abandon hope, all ye who enter here. If people always got what they wanted, there would be no point to heaven. There would be no point to life. Death. It was all the same fucking spiral in Hermione's head. They were all the same underneath. She walked in someone else's shoes and realized that they're too small, too thin, too meager. Just like her own. Each happiness seemed uniquely different, but all pain is the same. And they were all in pain.  
  
Hermione sat in St. Mungo's, alone with her thoughts. Alone, save the non- people. They still returned, from time to time, but they smell of old blood and betrayal and childhood. Every time they left, she felt that they ate another part of her away. Soon she fears she will have nothing left to give. Give and give and give. The spiral again.  
  
She was nobody. She talked to her shadows like everyone else; everyone was dripping in darkness. She could scrub it with all her might, but it wouldn't leave. She was dirty, just like the rest of the world. Everyone had been raped.  
  
The healers say she's lost in her own nonsensical world. She sat there alone often. Alone until the monsters in the shadows become real and begin to talk to her. Alone, except not at all. He was always there, he was always watching.  
  
She is one of the few people left who could understand his darkest voice, his rage. His connection to her would get him caught, but he'd known that from the beginning. Come and find me, Thomas. he'd taunt. I'm waiting.  
  
It was almost a kind of game.  
  
And in the mean time, before he was caught, he enjoyed the chase. For hours and hours, he talked to Hermione Granger, spending time with her contemplating that which consumes. 


	2. chapter i that which consumes

b R o K e n  
  
chapter i: that which consumes  
  
chapter i: that which consumes  
  
"Discovery consists of seeing what everybody has seen, and thinking what  
nobody has thought."  
-- Albert Szent-Gyorgyi  
  
Cho Chang was told as a young child that she was beautiful. Her mother, Joo- Eun, was above all honest, and critical to a fault. In other words, very Asian. "Your hair is lovely: so dark a black it's almost blue, smooth as fine silk and straight without being brittle. You must never cut it shorter than your waist. Your eyes are slanted, but not too small - foreign, but not threateningly so. The nose is a little flat, but it could be worse. Those lips are perfect though, red, full and inviting to a good husband. Most of all though, you've kept that perfect ivory skin. Only pureblooded Asian witches hold claim to that. The Japanese and Chinese hold these white men hearts, however you shall do Corea proud. Keep that glow, almost vampire-like skin. Only then will you be beautiful. And Cho, you must learn that beauty is all a woman has to protect her in this world. Your brain, your beliefs are nothing, no matter what these English teachers tell you. In the end, it will be your beauty, your grace. That is a lesson that Asia knows well. Men will always be our superiors, because that is how it's always been. If nothing else, never let go of your grace."  
  
Of course, Cho had always thought her mother was a bit of an idiot. (Maybe if you read a book or could even speak English, you'd understand what I'm saying.) Cho was smarter that that old-fashioned cow ever was. Joo-Eun Chang was born in a different country, a different time, one steeped in long dead tradition and parables of inapplicable wisdom. She just didn't understand that Cho was never 'Corean' (They spell it 'Korean', here, mother.). Sure, Cho could speak the language, but did she respect it? Did she think that it was superior to the logical knowledge of the west? Of course not.  
  
She was not a very obedient child, once she'd been at Hogwarts for a year. Rebellion is expected in British families: pierced body parts, drugs, sex, loud music, failed classes. But the Changs were a family of respect. There was no greater sin than a lack of filial piety. Cho did none of those plebeian things of rebellion, she was unmarked, quiet, was in the top three of her year. But her mother called her a disrespectful whore (Yes, I play Quidditch. Yes, I'm dating Cedric Diggory, Harry Potter, Michael Corner. Yes, I cut my bloody hair. It used to get in my face while playing Quidditch, see.), and declared her shame towards Cho to all of their relatives. "Cho's let herself think that these good grades make her better than her poor mother. She plays western boys' sports, flirts like a common prostitute with white boys and cut her hair," her mother confided in Hae Ri through the floo network. "I never had trouble like that with you, precious."  
  
Fucking Hae Ri. (Hae Ri. Herry. Harry. Did she know her name was a twisted, Korean version of the English Boy-who-lived?) Her mother's firstborn, her favorite. The one who was prettier, smarter and better than Cho ever could be. She'd married a 'good Corean', Yong Sun, as soon as she left Hogwarts and moved to China. (I'm not her. I wouldn't be if I could. I'd rather die.) Cho didn't know what Hae Ri did, and doubted her mother even knew. Cho saw her once after she left, and that was at their mother's funeral, during the summer after Cho's sixth year. Ironically enough, it was a lack of grace that led to her mother's downfall. She'd tripped over the family dog and tumbled down the stairs while Cho had been on a date with Michael. For some reason, she felt obligated to break up with him after that. After all, Cho's last words to her mother had been, "I can date who I like. Don't speak to me. I am better than you. I am not your daughter." Her mother's reply had only been a tear.  
  
Hae Ri was indeed beautiful: tall and willowy like an Asian veela, if there were such a thing. She smiled with hidden knowledge and embraced Cho warmly. "I know Mother was a difficult woman to tolerate, Cho," Hae Ri had said, in flawless English. "God knows I had to lie through my teeth to deal with her. She had her reasons though. You know Father was killed by white muggles? Disgusting," she'd spat. Cho wasn't sure what part Hae Ri had been referring to.  
  
"I'm moving to London, Cho. My organization has transferred Yong and I as the Southeast-Asian delegations. You are free to live with us until school starts up again, if you'd like. You are my little sister, after all." As she smiled benevolently at Cho, with those perfect teeth, Cho realized that her hate of her virtually unknown older sister (Perfect, horribly perfect. As smart as Granger, as beautiful as Delacour. I hate her even more than you, Mother.) had not diminished at all.  
  
"That is most gracious of you," Cho murmured demurely in reply. "However, Headmaster Dumbledore has already secured me a place at the Order of the Phoenix's headquarters. He thinks it best since I might be viewed as a target against Har - my ex-boyfriend."  
  
Hae Ri's eyes blanked at the mention of Dumbledore. Nodding vacantly, she'd patted Cho's head, and wished her the best of luck. And that was that.  
  
What is the moral of the story of Cho's mother? Cho is no longer beautiful, with her mutilated skin, and she no longer knows.  
  
*  
  
September 11, St. Mungo's Hospital  
  
Cho (gracefully, now, with poise and delicacy,) poured Hermione Granger's cup of tea. It steamed with a menthol aroma in the quaint china cup (This set belonged to my mother - they were handmade, Hermione.). Cho had spoken to Hermione's parents many times during almost six month stay in St. Mungo's. Cho herself only stayed at the hospital for another day after Ginny's demise. During these strained, yet calm conversations with Allison and Richard Granger, Cho discovered that Hermione was declared a child genius at three, could play the violin, cello, piano, flute and harp, had read all of Shakespeare's work by nine, had been the three-time debate champion of England and wanted to be a pediatric oncologist or environmental lawyer when she grew up (That had been before Hogwarts, of course.). Her favorite color was pink (Hermione Granger - pink!), her favorite book was Milton's Paradise Lost, her favorite music was Beethoven's Ninth, her favorite movie as a child was The Swan Princess and her favorite drink was Moroccan mint tea.  
  
Of course, Hermione hadn't drunk or eaten a thing since her confinement. The Healers had been diffusing food and water into her body, but pretend was such a lovely game. It was better to pretend that Hermione would sip on mint tea while they had meaningless conversations over irrelevant topics. Forget that Hermione hadn't spoken since Ginny's death. Of course, even before Ginny's death, all they got out of her was the repetition of 'It's not as it seems, it's not as it seems, it's not as it seems ...'  
  
The game of pretend was all that kept Cho going these days. She needed a doll to play with that was just as broken as she was. She needed to hear Hermione answer in her head or she'd be where Ginny was.  
  
"Anyway, Professor Lupin visited this morning while you were sleeping. Neville seems to be doing - great - just great. He produced his first patronus yesterday. It's form is a mockingbird."  
  
Of course Harry was making patronuses back in his third year.  
  
"Yes, well, give Neville a little more time. Headmaster McGonagall has named him Headboy."  
  
It should have been Harry.  
  
"I know, but some things are meant to be. Anyway, I hear the school is a depressing sight these days. Almost a third of the students have dropped out, Hermione. The rest are only staying long enough to meet the requirements needed to enlist in the war. It depressing. Minerva told me that there were only ten new first years."  
  
Only ten? I can't imagine that.  
  
"I know. It's odd though how quickly time's gone by. It was back in March when we got here, now it's September. I hear Luna is in trouble though, and this time, she deserves it. Her article in the Quibbler was uncalled for and disrespectful. You won't believe what she wrote this time."  
  
What. I'm dying to know. Even the voice in Cho's head was dripping in sarcasm.  
  
"She actually said that - that - someone has come forward with the knowledge that Har - your best friend (No one says Harry's name around Hermione. No one mentions Draco Malfoy or the incident. Last time you did, she'd tried to claw out her eyes. Healer Finch warned you not to.) - and that creature had some sort of relationship."  
  
"They were in love."  
  
Cho stopped speaking, and color flooded into her face, making her silvered scars stand out all the more vividly. Why on earth would her imaginary Hermione say something as terrible as that? "What?"  
  
And for the first time, Hermione looked at Cho. She was there and ... sane. "They were in love."  
  
Cho didn't know whether to call for a healer, scream, run like mad or just sit there, sip mint tea and say, "Who was in love?" Eventually, she chose the last option.  
  
"Harry and Draco were, Chang." Hermione said ever so rationally. "Didn't you know? Hasn't the ministry told you, yet? Don't you know where we are?"  
  
"I ... we ... St. Mungo's. You've been here for - I don't know - five, six months. Don't you remember, Hermione?"  
  
"I remember everything, of course. And we're not at St. Mungo's - we're at the Order Headquarters. I talked to Harry just yesterday." Hermione blinks and Cho is afraid that she imagined all of this - that she's joined Hermione in the land of the cuckoo. But then Hermione looks at her again, and there are tears in her eyes. "What happened to your face, Cho?" Hesitantly she brought a finger to the spider-web of silver lines that slashed through the ivory cheeks on her face down to that stubborn chin, disappearing down below her charcoal-colored turtleneck.  
  
Cho jerked back violently, as though she had been bitten. "You don't remember," she repeated, but this time more harshly, without the quiet sympathy. It wasn't a question, either.  
  
Hermione shrugged, such a normal gesture. "Remember what?"  
  
Cho slapped her, and an angry hand print surfaced on that nearly translucent skin. "You - that's not fair! How can you not fucking remember - I - God! I went through hell and I thought that maybe one person could understand! I thought that I wouldn't be alone! After Ginny ... How can you not remember something like that?"  
  
Hermione tentatively touched her stinging cheek, eyebrows creased in anger. "What are you talking about? I've been healing here for almost half a year after the rape -"  
  
"Rape? I don't want to hear you talk about what you'll never -"  
  
"- And you burst in here randomly like you've been in an alternate reality. Calm down - I don't know what you're on about Cho, but what prerogative do you have to hit me then bitch at me for no apparent reason?"  
  
"What prerogative? What fucking prerogative?" Cho was laughing now, laughing harder than she has in months. She absently wondered if the healers outside would hear her and discover Hermione's current state of responsiveness. "Ginny is dead, Hermione. She killed herself. Ron is dead too. A lot of people are dead, and you can't remember."  
  
"I know Ginny's dead, Cho. You think Harry hasn't been telling me this? I know about Ron and the rest of them, too. Only, I thought he said that you were dead as well. Haven't you talked to him lately? He's probably wondering why you haven't contacted him."  
  
Cho skittered back in her chair, tea cup crashing onto the floor, but not shattering (Better than the Portmerion that you English are so fond of, this is Asian made.). "I can't contact him because he's dead, Hermione. Draco fucking Malfoy, who you say is his boyfriend killed him! He's dead - HOW CAN YOU NOT REMEMBER?!"  
  
Hermione moved so fast that Cho didn't even notice until she was against the wall, uncut nails scratching along her neck, forcing the breath out of her. "Harry is NOT dead! He isn't - you've got it all wrong - Draco Malfoy, he is - you - you -"  
  
And then it was over. Healer Rosemary Finch stood behind Hermione, empty hypodermic needle in hand. Hermione's eyes dulled and she smiled vapidly. "That's a good girl, poppet. Calm down now and get your hands off of poor Miss Chang, now. You've given her a fright, I think. Get into bed now," Finch said as she led Hermione to her bed.  
  
The dumpy healer grinned blankly at Cho. "I think you'd best be leaving now, Miss Chang. She's been restless lately. Third time this week," was all she said as she turned to leave.  
  
"What? Has she done this before? Why hasn't anyone been told? Her parents -?"  
  
The healer walked back up to Cho, and laid a fat, pink hand on her shoulder. It glistened there like a wet piece of candy. Cho shrugged it off - she'd never liked Finch. There was something off about her. "She's been psychotic, Miss Chang. St. Mungo's already spoken to the ministry, of course. They've kept it on a strictly need-to-known clearance. Muggles wouldn't understand."  
  
"They wouldn't understand?" Cho said incredulously. "They're her parents! They have a right to know! Have you at least notified the Order?"  
  
"I assume that the hospital has, Miss Chang. Hermione Granger's case is a top priority among us here. However, we don't want her getting overexcited. She might hurt herself and others."  
  
"But she was saying something! What if she has new evidence on the Malfoy incident? What if she knows something?"  
  
"Anything that comes out of her mouth, Miss Chang, would be absolute poppycock. She is quite mad. I can quite assure you, Miss Chang, that her brain resembles a scrambled egg right now, and probably always will."  
  
"But she seemed so rational. She said Harry was alive ..."  
  
Clucking sympathetically, Healer Finch patted Cho's back. "I'm sorry, my dear. I wish it were so, too. She doesn't understand that her lies hurt good people. Miss Granger can't remember things properly anymore. Such a smart young witch I hear, so much potential. But that Neville Longbottom's such a bright boy, you know."  
  
*  
  
September 12, Luna Lovegood's Office at the Quibbler  
  
Cho was feeling self-conscious and for good reason, too. She didn't like being around other people much anymore. Her scars caused babies to cry, children to point at her in the streets, old ladies to gasp and grown men to avert their eyes. Cho had been taught that all she had to offer was beauty, and now that it was stripped from her, she didn't know how to act around other people. So before her meeting with Luna and her 'witness', she'd put on as much cover-up as possible, and wore her highest Prada turtleneck (pastel lavender), thick Chanel sunglasses and leather gloves (her hands never really healed properly). Still, the raised bumps of her scars would never really fade.  
  
Unfortunately, Luna's contact was far from someone who was enamored with Cho. A thin honey-blonde was lounging on Luna's sofa, effortlessly flicking ash off of a cigarette onto a lilac glass ash tray while playing with Luna's earrings, which appeared to be miniature pink handcuffs. "Pansy Parkinson?" Cho sneered warily as the girl eyed her scars unabashedly, pug nose wrinkled in distaste.  
  
"The one and only, honey." Pansy Parkinson exhaled a thick stream of pale smoke through her nostrils before taking another heavy drag on her cigarette. Cho noticed that the girl's slender fingers were only barely thicker than the fag.  
  
"You're not still in school?" Cho asked with mock politeness. She valued education dearly, after all and went to summer school after the incident to receive her diploma. Luna's dropping out had put her on Cho's naughty list.  
  
"My parents withdrew me. And you know that the school is little more than boot camp these days. I'm taking owl correspondence classes via Beauxbatons.  
  
"Really," Cho said in a deadpanned voice. She was half torn between approval and a disappointment that she couldn't chastise the former Slytherin.  
  
"Look," Pansy said, and her voice was old and tired, "I haven't told this to anyone but Luna before, but I know what he did to you, and as his former friend, I guess I owe you something. I know they were seeing each other, but that's honestly all I know, Chang."  
  
Cho coughed lightly, and the two of them looked at her. She bit her lip as Luna ran a hand through her short, spiked hair (she'd taken fashion tips from Tonks, though Luna's hair was still ash blonde rather than cotton- candy blue). "What exactly does 'seeing each other' constitute as in non- Slytherin talk?"  
  
"It means they were fucking like rabbits, of course." Pansy said nonchalantly.  
  
Cho coughed again and Luna had to pat her back as she spluttered. "Parkinson, I was being serious," she hissed, glaring at the blonde.  
  
"As was I. You are so naive, Cho. You still think of Harry Potter as the virgin who'd never kissed a girl until he'd kissed you. He grew up after fifth year, Chang. We all did. I know what I saw, and I knew ... I thought I knew Draco. I thought that he was in love, which seemed impossible. But I saw how he used to look at Harry - like there wasn't anyone else even worth mentioning or noticing besides him. Surely even a ditzy social butterfly would have notice that the tension between them was thick enough to have been cut with a knife. Of course, I didn't realize the tension was sexual until I walked in on them shagging in the Quidditch shower rooms. I'd originally meant to console him after his loss against Gryffindor, but ... Well, what I saw shocked the shit out of me. Don't think either of them noticed me, though. They seemed a bit ... preoccupied, if you know what I mean."  
  
"I don't believe you. Harry was too good for that - that - creature. Not only that, other people would have known."  
  
"Draco was a Slytherin. We know the meaning of discretion in our house. And as much as we never got on, Harry wasn't stupid either. Funny how it's most of the Ravenclaws who are short on brains despite what the Sorting Hat says. So I suggest you shut your mouth since you know nothing about it."  
  
Luna kissed Pansy's jaw, then the side of her mouth. "She didn't know, love. Cho always wanted to see the best in people. She doesn't like the idea that even ... Harry ... has - had - his dark secrets. Merlin knows she probably hasn't even clued in to us." Luna began to lazily trace lines up and down Pansy's thigh.  
  
Cho, for lack of a better word, gawked. "You two ... are -?"  
  
"Dating?" Pansy finished with a sneer. "Actually, we're engaged."  
  
"Oh." There didn't seem like there was much more Cho could say, though she wanted to blurt out that they were a little young. Luna was only sixteen, after all!  
  
"Why did you want to know about them anyway?" Luna said dreamily.  
  
Pulling up her darkened glasses with one hand, she looked at directly at Luna, taking an almost sinister pleasure as silver eyes raked the line across her left eyelid. No one ever suspected that the mutilated girl was clutching her wand in the other hand (Just in case you're wrong, Cho.). No, they were too busy gawking at the injuries. "I hear you're the Order's mole within the Department of Mysteries."  
  
Luna flushed, a novelty Cho had never managed to pull off at school. "That's confidential, Cho. I don't know who you've been talking to, but I will rip out ribs until I -"  
  
"Yes, yes. I've been working with Remus for the past three months. I'm the same level in the Order as you and have subsequently been notified of your position. Though I am not privy to your information, I know well enough what you're researching. The information I have relates almost directly to it. But I won't say it until I know the status of Miss Parkinson over there."  
  
Pansy growled and Luna nodded firmly. "She's safe. You have my word. Before Snape's passing, she'd already begun her work with Order. You can trust her."  
  
"That's pushing it a little." Cho pursed her lips and replaced her sunglasses. "Well, this is confidential. Is this room secure?"  
  
"Security's tighter than a Weasley's pocket," Pansy smirked, and Cho wanted to hit her very badly, but somehow managed to ignore her.  
  
"I found out that St. Mungo's has been covering something up. Hermione's been talking for about three weeks from what I gather, but they've been shooting her full of suppressants. She seems to know about Harry and him as well - but I couldn't get all of what she was saying before a healer shut her up. They don't want her talking, and I don't know why, other than the fact that she's under the impression that ... Harry is alive."  
  
Luna lit up a cigarette and offered one to Cho. "I don't smoke," she said as she took one and lit it fluidly, sucking deeply on the stick. Pansy smirked. "Anyway, I've made my inquiries. A healer, Rosemary Finch, told me that the ministry has been notified of Hermione's state of consciousness, which is utter bullshit. Moody believes that St. Mungo's has been compromised. Hermione and several other patients are being relocated to an undisclosed location tonight."  
  
"What does that have to do with us?" Pansy asked, stubbing out her fag. "Unless we're supposed to help with this little rescue operation at the loony bin, which is doubtful."  
  
Cho smiled, something she hadn't done very often since it hurt her cheeks to do so. It wasn't a pleasant smile. "I want to know what happened. I know the wizarding world has been told that Hermione's crazy, but I heard her talk. She's as sane as you and I. And she thinks Harry is alive. You know as well as I do that Neville is never going to be able to save us. The world needs a little hope, and I want to see if there's any left. I want to find out if there's a fire under all this smoke."  
  
"Cho, I'm not sure exactly what you're proposing. You want to conduct a formal investigation into Harry's death?" Luna asked. "Does the Order know about this?"  
  
Cho's grin widened until Pansy almost grimaced at the pain the girl must have been in. "No, they don't want to waste resources on something like this. I have money, but I don't have help. And I'll need it to do what I want to do. Luna, you're the only person I know who is crazy enough to believe that Hermione might be on to something. And Pansy, she trusts you, which is enough for me." She paused. "Will you help me?"  
  
"With what exactly, Chang?" Pansy said.  
  
"I want to kidnap Hermione from her holding at the Order safe house, which I don't know the location of, sneak into the Memorial Cemetery on warded, Hogwarts grounds, dig up Harry's body to make sure that's who he really is, and then, I'm not really sure."  
  
Luna grinned, looking at Pansy. The Slytherin winked in response. "All right then, Cho. We have a deal."  
  
*  
  
September 11, Somewhere in London  
  
The rain was hard, cold and clean in his face as he walked down the Green Road, water pelting his silvery hair down in wet rivulets. He didn't mind the water, or the harshly biting wind. He looked out of place among the umbrellas and ponchos the rest of the pedestrians were sporting, but no one looked at him, the tinsel-haired youth who looked like an angel. A charm to make other people not notice him wasn't difficult to keep up; it was simple glamour. He wished he'd learnt it at a younger age - think how much more he could have gotten away with. He took a sharp turn and entered the Underground station. So, he whispered as he boarded the tube, and had other people been able to hear him, they might have wondered why he was talking to himself. Luckily, he wasn't speaking out loud. Have you figured me out yet, Thomas?  
  
The voice pulsed as it answered in his head, cold and silky. You are still a child, no matter how many you kill. I commend you - there aren't many who could escape my hunters for almost six months. But I do not understand your game. Luckily, I no longer need to as I've discovered a little leverage - this business with the Granger girl.  
  
You've finally caught onto that, have you? What is she to you?  
  
I know of your power over St. Mungo's, particularly over the SPELL DAMAGE ward. You've been visiting her, haven't you.  
  
Leave her out of this and I'll comply to your wishes.  
  
And what is it that you think I want?  
  
Besides world domination, a nice leather trench coat, immorality and great sex, most likely with yours truly, I'd say you want to know what my motives are.  
  
If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were flirting with me, child.  
  
That's right, I'm attempting to seduce the Dark Lord through mind sex. You've guessed it.  
  
I always knew I was bright. Meet me at Waterloo, gate 11 in ten minutes or Granger won't be anyone's concern anymore.  
  
I love it when you play dirty. So we shall finally be face to face, Thomas, after all this time.  
  
Indeed. Does this mean one of us will die?  
  
I don't see why it should. I'm rather tired of all this killing. I mean hate someone, kill them. Love them, kill them. Barely know them, kill them. It's so blasé.  
  
Quite. This should be interesting. We have a lot to catch up on, you know. 


End file.
